


Babylon the Great

by Unpretty



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-29 01:30:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3877240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unpretty/pseuds/Unpretty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the end of days delayed but not averted, Katrina Crane fled America with her infant son. When Ichabod Crane awoke in the 21st century, his wife was long-dead. The end of the world is coming, and with two centuries of Katrina's groundwork, this time the Witnesses should have the upper hand. Assuming they can figure out this whole 'teamwork' thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus: and when I saw her, I wondered with great admiration._

  


# THEN

  


"I'm surprised you'd show yourself here," said Benjamin Franklin, "after what you did."

Katrina Crane was unphased and unbowed by his scorn. Jeremy watched from his place in her arms, always just a little too placid for an infant. Watchful, like his father. "I require safe passage," she said, and it was not a request. Her skirts were torn and her hair fell wild, but she was possessed of a feral power, equal parts righteousness and motherhood. Even Benjamin Franklin could not deny the sheer authority of her, in that part of every man that was still a young boy in fear of a scold.

"And why should I give it to you?" he scoffed. "Put myself on the wrong side of the Sisters when I'm already in the middle of a war?" He had never bowed to authority nor fear, tempting though it may have been.

"An Earthly war, only," she reminded him, "thanks to my husband's sacrifice."

"Sacrifice!" Franklin's incredulity was not quite laughter. "No sacrifice at all, from what I hear. You saw to that, didn't you?"

She had anticipated this, but her jaw tightened in irritation nonetheless. "Without Ichabod," she said, "you were doomed to lose _both_ your wars. There is no resource more valuable than time, and now you have it. Death _sleeps_. It is up to us what he finds when he wakes."

Franklin leaned forward across his desk. "Tell me something, Lady Crane," he asked. "When you cast the spell that threw decades of planning onto the fire, were you thinking of the war?"

It had not so much as crossed her mind. Only death, the impossible vastness of the void, her husband lost to her for all eternity. She was a witch; their souls would not find each other in the hereafter. Exactly why witches and mortals were not meant to consort, exactly why she should not have allowed herself to marry a man that she loved. She had done everything wrong, and all of the horrors of which she had been warned had come to pass.

"No," she said, and Franklin looked surprised by her honesty. "When I married Ichabod Crane, it was for one reason: because I realized that he was the only person in this whole world worth saving. More than any one or any thing, I would send the world to damnation if I thought it would save him."

"And you've done that, haven't you?" He did not hide his sneer, but then, he was not a man who often did.

"But _that_ , Mr. Franklin," she said before he could speak again, "was before my _son_." Perhaps he saw the fire in her eyes, and that was why he stayed his tongue. "I would damn the world for my husband," she said, "but for my son, I _will_ save it."

Their eyes locked for a long moment. It was Franklin who faltered when Jeremy burbled, his gaze sliding to the final legacy of a man who had done everything for a country that might someday be.

"They say the love of a good woman can work miracles," Franklin said.

"I do not doubt it," Katrina agreed, "but I am not a good woman. I am a witch." She looked down at the child in her arms, her sun and her stars. "My heart is radiant," she said, "and the Devil will quake for what my love can do."

  


* * *

  


# NOW

  


> KATRINA CRANE  
>  DIED 1832  
>  DEVOTED MOTHER

Mother. Mother. Mother. His wife had borne a child. She had been a mother. She had lived for fifty years after his death. For how many of those years had she been a mother? Ichabod did not know if he was a father, had _been_ a father, but if it was so then his child was long dead. A dead wife, a dead child, their bones turned to dust as he slept.

The room felt cold. Cold and hard, stiff white linen and metal and gleaming tile. Was this Hell? If this was Hell, the Devil surely had brown eyes.

That was as good an explanation as any for the torment he felt. She was the only thing that felt real in this place, Lieutenant Abigail Mills, warm and alive with a smile that rarely spread further than her mouth. Clever, with an edge to her tongue that sharpened his own. Yet this made her the most maddening of all, dangling hope in front of him only to snatch it away. Every time he thought that he had made her understand, she would close up and shut him out, no better than any other of the people here who looked on him with scorn and pity.

He thought of Katrina, and then tried not to think of Katrina. Tried and failed not to think of her growing old without him, dying without him, lines around her mouth and her eyes from all the smiles he had never seen. Would it be better to let them convince him he was mad? Surely anything would be better than this.

"Pardon me," a voice said, and in surprise he unclenched fists he had not realized he was making, gasped for breath he had not realized he was holding. He was standing in a forest he had never seen before, familiar all the same, gray as if from recent winter. He spun around himself, and found the source of a voice: an older man, quite unassuming, a sheepish smile on his face.

"Who are you?" Ichabod demanded. "Where am I?"

"I'm very sorry," said the man, and he seemed sincere. "I wish we had more time, there's so much—there's so many things, I—but Moloch will sense it if we talk too long, and so I must be brief." The corner of his mouth twitched, a sad attempt at a smile quickly abandoned. "I am Jeremy Crane," he said, with the slightest bow of his head.

"Jeremy… Crane…?" Ichabod repeated, staring at a man who must have been at least twice his age, deep lines in his face and his hair faded.

"Yes," he said, and again there was that twitch, that half-second smile. "Hello, father." Ichabod was struck dumb, frozen in place as he stared. "I would embrace you, but, well. It doesn't really work that way, I'm afraid." Ichabod took a step closer to Jeremy, but the distance between them did not lessen.

"A ghost?"

"Of sorts."

"And Katrina…?"

"She moved on long ago," Jeremy explained.

"Moved on? Where did she—"

"All in due time," Jeremy interrupted. "For now, father, time is of the essence. Moloch has awakened the Horseman, but he seeks first his head. He cannot be allowed to reclaim it."

"Tell me where it is," Ichabod said, "and I will destroy it."

"No!" Jeremy seemed surprised by his father's hasty impulse. "So long as it is in your possession, it will be a tool and a weapon. He will be drawn to it, driven to distraction by it—that advantage would be lost without it."

"That is a dangerous advantage."

"But better than none at all."

"And how am I to seek this advantage, locked in a madhouse as I am? Lieutenant Mills has seen to it that I can be of no use to anyone."

"Ah. Yes." Again that rueful pull to his mouth, shy and short. "Abigail." There was an odd familiarity in the way he said it, and yet a distance. "Unfortunate, that the timing couldn't have been… different…"

"You know Miss Mills?" Ichabod asked.

"We have not met," said Jeremy, and there was a hint of humor in it that Ichabod recognized as his own. Acerbic and dry, Katrina had called it insulting more than once. "But I know of her. You've figured it out yourself, haven't you—that she's special?"

"A witness," Ichabod said, and Jeremy nodded his confirmation.

"Do not worry about Abigail," Jeremy said, and it made Ichabod uncomfortable the way he used the Lieutenant's given name. He couldn't quite pinpoint why, but it didn't seem prudent to try scolding him about it. A son by blood, but they were strangers; a son who was an elder, a son he had outlived. "She'll come around, in time, but the Horseman will not wait for her."

The world shook around him—not the ground or the trees, but everything at once—with a distant sound like thunder.

"Moloch has found us," Jeremy said, and he didn't sound as concerned as one might expect under the circumstances. But he was growing distant, both in voice and in form, as if the air itself was pulling them apart. "You must wake up now, father. You _must_ wake up."

Ichabod jolted upright, to the cold and empty room in white, skin sticky with sweat. A guard looked in at him suspiciously, and so he clamped his mouth shut. They thought him mad enough without his calling out for ghosts. As the guard retreated, he rubbed a hand over his face and sighed.

Falling in a river was no substitute for a bath. He hadn't bathed in over a hundred years. What a chilling thought that was.

"Mr. Crane." He looked up to the doorway, to the woman he recognized as the doctor here. Had the guard been insufficiently convinced by his show of sanity?

Women lieutenants and women doctors, and every single one of them seemed to hate him for reasons beyond his control. Turnabout was fair play, but there were limits.

"Lieutenant Mills is here to escort you back to the precinct for some questioning," she said, and she did not look terribly pleased by this fact. Ichabod stood immediately, reflexively attempting to straighten his coat before remembering that he was not wearing it. He froze when the woman in question came into view.

"Shall we?" asked a woman who was categorically _not_ Abigail Mills, holding up his coat.

"It shall be my pleasure," he said slowly, following her lead though he did not completely understand. He waited until they were further down the hall, and out of earshot of the doctors, to address her. "Do _not_ take my participation in this ruse as approval," he hissed into her ear, and he did not need to bend as low as he did with the real Lieutenant.

"It's only half a lie," she murmured, and there was a husky undertone to her voice that threw him off-balance. "I'm a Mills. We've been waiting for you to wake up a long time, Mr. Crane."

Ichabod considered this. "Jenny?" he ventured.

"You've heard of me," she said, and even that small bit of approval seemed flirtatious. She could not be further from her sister, this woman, even if he could now see the resemblance. Harder than Abigail, even if she had that same spark of something lively.

 _This_ Mills believed him. She was here to help him, and already she had, with not half the frustration that marked every inch of progress with her sister.

So why did he wish it had been the other?

Barely out the door, and Jenny Mills froze at the sound of a click. Ichabod had learned already what that sound indicated, and so he too became still.

"Do you mind telling me," Abigail said, gun pointed without hesitation at her sister, "what in the hell you think you're doing here?"


	2. Chapter 2

_The waters which thou sawest, where the whore sitteth, are peoples, and multitudes, and nations, and tongues._

  


# THEN

 

The Four Who Speak As One had made it to Capraia. Jeremy, having never been given the luxury of owning a great many things, took no time at all to prepare himself to flee. He had years of practice, after all. He could dress himself and jump out a window in his sleep.

And sometimes did, though not for any reason his mother would approve of.

Yet he found his mother not prepared at all, looking almost serene as she gazed out over the open water where the sea reflected the stars.

"… mother?" he asked slowly, concerned that he had missed something important, that something was more wrong than he could have even guessed. "Are we waiting for something?"

"The Four Who Speak As One," she said, as if it were obvious, still admiring the view.

"I beg your pardon?" Katrina turned to her son, raising an eyebrow. "Are we waiting to be sure they see us waving as we leave?" he asked, because that was the only way this could possibly make sense to him.

"Jeremy," she said, too affectionate to be scolding. "We have run for long enough. You are old enough now, and strong enough. We are ready— _you_ are ready." She took his hands in hers, calloused now and worn with years that weighed heavy on her shoulders. "Tonight is the night we reclaim the Sisterhood."

"Are you certain?" he asked, because he was not. "Perhaps I could get even stronger," he suggested, "if we waited. A few… millennia…"

Katrina laughed. " _Jeremy_ ," she chided again. "What would your father say if he could hear you sounding so fearful?"

Jeremy shrugged. "If I had to guess?" He attempted to adopt the demeanor and accent of an older and more dignified version of himself. "Who are you? Where am I? Why am I covered in dirt?" Katrina gasped. "Kidding!" Jeremy added, hasty, ducking his head as his mother gently cuffed his ear. She still had to reach up to do it, because he had long since grown taller than she.

"What am I going to do with you?" she grumbled, straightening her skirts. Jeremy smiled and kissed her cheek.

"You're going to take me to war," he said, "with four of the most powerful witches in the world."

"They are not so powerful as they once were," she said. "They live for little, now, but to see me punished. It has weakened them, though they do not know it."

Jeremy had lived his whole life in fear of the Four. The ones who would take his mother from him, who would see him locked away. Relentless hunters, he feared them more than any child had feared a bogeyman, and all the more for knowing they were real. But his trust in the woman who had borne and raised and sheltered him was greater than his fear of any man, woman, or monster. Katrina looked to the harbor, and he followed her gaze. There they stood, all four of them at the head of a great ship like figureheads. The power that radiated off them was unmistakable, turning the sky dark and the waters choppy.

"Well then," he said. "All we have to do is defeat the Four Who Speak As One, claim leadership of the Radiant Heart, and convince the entire rest of the coven that this is good and fine and please stop trying to murder us." He paused, then leaned closer to his mother. "Do you mind telling me how, exactly, we're going to do that?"

Slowly, Katrina's face split into a smile. It was one that Jeremy recognized, bright-eyed and half-mad, and one that made him almost pity the monsters bearing down on them. "We will do what we have always done," she said, and he could sense the power in her coming alive like a forest in springtime, the fire in his heart rising to answer its call as she reached for his hand.

"We will _outshine_ them."

 

* * *

 

# NOW

 

"I could ask _you_ the same thing," Jenny said, apparently unbothered by the gun pointed at her. "I wasn't aware you were _capable_ of visiting people in the hospital. What with your busy schedule, and all."

Ichabod was extremely uncomfortable.

"Just answer the damn question."

"Why should I?" Jenny demanded in return. "You're not going to believe me. So what's the point?"

"Why don't you try me," Abigail suggested, "and I'll decide for myself what I'm willing to believe."

Jenny narrowed her eyes, and seemed to look more closely at her sister's face. "You found Corbin's files," she said—a statement, not a question.

For a moment, Abbie's eyes widened in surprise. "You _knew_ about those?" Then she made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a huff, rolling her eyes. "Of _course_ you did. I'll bet you two were just _best friends_. Meanwhile, his _partner_ has to wait until he's _dead_ to—you know what? It doesn't even matter. Whatever."

"He _tried_ to tell you," Jenny said. " _You_ weren't ready to listen. And we don't have time to wait for you to play catch-up."

"You still haven't answered my question," Abbie said, and she still had not lowered her gun.

"If it helps," Ichabod said, "I would also like to know what the plan is. I am assuming there _is_ a plan." He did not like this, the way that they had been set at odds, the way sides had formed and the way that Lieutenant Mills was not on his.

Jenny Mills had the same huffy sigh as her sister. "I'm taking him to a safehouse." She looked over her shoulder to Ichabod. "We need to get you set up. Running around telling people you've traveled in time to stop the apocalypse doesn't seem to be working too well."

Ichabod considered this. "I can see why you might think that," he acknowledged, "and I'm willing to try doing things your way."

"Glad we're on the same page," she said with a wink, before turning back to her sister. "That good enough for you, _Lieutenant_?"

Abigail looked from her sister to Ichabod and back again. Then she holstered her gun, and Ichabod exhaled with relief. "To answer _your_ question," she said to Jenny, "I was coming here to get him."

Jenny couldn't decide if she wanted to smile. "And do what?"

"I wasn't sure, yet. I thought if we could stop the _thing_ that killed Corbin… maybe Irving'd be willing to overlook a minor felony or two."

"I'm doing you a favor, is what you're saying."

"I wouldn't go that far." At least he wasn't the only one with whom Abigail Mills put up walls. "We're going to have a good long talk, you and me—eventually. But for right now, the less I know, the better. You have my number?"

"Always," Jenny said, and in that moment their expressions were indecipherable.

"I'll do what I can to keep Irving off your backs," Abbie said, breaking the moment.

"Your new boss sounds like a real hard-ass." Ichabod's surprise at the expression must have shown on his face, because for a moment Abigail was looking at him and not at her sister.

"Yeah," she said, "he's a real barrel of laughs. But he's not stupid. We get him the guy he actually wants, you two are off the hook. In the meantime I'll try to keep you updated on whatever we find on our end, and maybe you can try to actually keep me in the loop for once. That sound fair?"

"More than fair," Ichabod agreed, and both Mills sisters turned to look at him with identical raised eyebrows. "I'm sorry, do I not get a say in this?"

"Fine," Jenny said. "I'll get him a cell, you two can _text_ since you're apparently BFFs all of a sudden."

Ichabod narrowed his eyes and looked to Abigail. "Did she just insinuate something vile?"

Abigail bit the inside of her lip, the corner of her mouth twitching. "No. She just made fun of us by comparing us to little girls."

"Oh. Well. That's not _so_ bad, then."

"If you two are finished," Jenny said, impatient. "Come on, Crane, we need to get moving."

Jenny started to move, but Ichabod hesitated before following. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he said, and he hoped she could tell just how much he meant it. "And… I am sorry. For… everything."

The ghost of a sad little smile passed over her face, and there were such depths of sadness in her eyes. "Thanks," she said. "Me, too."

 

* * *

 

"What is this?"

Jenny looked up from whatever it was she was doing at the desk. She raised an eyebrow. "They're called _clothes_ ," she said, "and I'm pretty sure you had those back in your time."

"That's not what I meant," he said, trying and failing to get the waistband of his trousers somewhere agreeable without hurting himself on his own inseam. Jenny rolled her eyes.

"Hey, it could have been worse, okay? It could have been jeans and a t-shirt. That was the most Harlequin-cover looking thing they had at the store—and it's _definitely_ better than wandering around in that ratty old coat." He had not the faintest clue what clowns had to do with the discussion at hand, but he could tell that asking after it would be a fruitless endeavour. Jenny Mills was not the sort to translate her speech into something easier for him to parse. She waved him over, and gestured for him to sit in a chair. There was a device much like the one they'd had in the room when they'd first interrogated him, but he assumed that was not her intent.

"I _do_ appreciate the effort," he said, though her attention remained on her infernal machine, "but I will not pretend that this is satisfactory." There was a sound from beneath her desk, and Ichabod recoiled. She reached beneath it, and then handed him a card.

"Ta-da," she said. "You can now identify yourself to the police and other authority figures."

"This says I was born in the year nineteen-hundred and eighty-two," he said. The picture of him on it did not look very good, either. For someone used to only seeing himself in mirrors or carefully crafted portraits, photographs were already looking to become a source of great consternation.

"If you ask me to make you younger, I'm sending you back to the asylum," she warned.

"What? No, it isn't that. Is this legal?"

"It will _look_ legal," she said, "once I'm done. No one was sure exactly when you'd wake up, but we've been getting our ducks in a row for a while now."

"And those ducks did not include a better suit of clothing?"

"Oh my _god_ ," Jenny groaned, spinning in her chair, "you are _not_ going to let that go, are you? Once the money gets released from your trust, you can buy all the clothes you want. Maybe you'll find something on Etsy, I don't know."

"Money?" Ichabod repeated. "There's—where did this all come from? Who is this _we_ that's been _setting up ducks_ and _waiting_ , who is _we_?"

"The Sisters."

"The—you and the Lieutenant?"

"No, not…" Jenny exhaled an almost-laugh. "The Sisterhood of the Radiant Heart. It _used_ to be a coven. But it became something more. Thanks to Katrina."

"My wife." Ichabod hesitated. "My… former wife. Late wife." He swallowed whatever emotion had almost come up his throat. "I'm sorry, I. I haven't yet figured out, ah. What to… call her…"

"That was the other thing I was supposed to give you," Jenny said, a brisk interruption of his near brush with melancholy. She pulled her bag into her lap, and dug through it until she found what she was searching for. A book, leather-bound and heavy, old and well-worn. "This is for you," she said, handing it off to him. "Katrina wrote it—Jeremy, too, but mostly Katrina. It's supposed to help guide you." He ran his fingers over the cover, and abruptly she stood. "I need to go get in touch with the other Sisters," she said. "I'll… be back."

It was a clumsy way of giving him privacy, but it was better than the alternative.

After a long moment, he sighed into the silence, gripping the book tightly as if to squeeze his wife's hand across the centuries. "Well, then, Katrina," he said to the empty room, to the pages in his hands, "what do you have to say for yourself?"


	3. Chapter 3

_He who has ears to hear, let him hear._

  


"So you have no idea why your sister impersonated you to kidnap Ichabod Crane?"

Frank Irving was not happy.

"No idea, sir," Abbie lied.

Abbie wasn't particularly happy, either, but at least _she_ wasn't getting up anyone's ass about it.

"No hunch as to where she could have gone?"

"None, sir."

"None at all? Your _sister_ ran off with a crazy man you were getting real buddy-buddy with up until she snatched him, and you don't have even a _clue_ what might be happening?"

Irving's patience was wearing thin, but so was Abbie's. He braced his hands on his desk to lean across it, staring her down, but she stared him down just the same. "Sir," she said, "I have not said a _word_ to my sister in over _five years_. You can check her old hospital records, if you don't believe me. We don't keep in touch. Particularly not about _kidnappings_." 

"You'll excuse me if I'm not comfortable taking your word for it," he said.

"I don't expect you to," she spat back.

"I know you're planning to leave soon—"

"I'm not," she interrupted, and that brought him up short.

"What?"

"I'm staying in Sleepy Hollow," she said.

" _Really_." His skeptical tone made her bristle.

"Yes, _really_ ," she said, and he stood straight, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I _hope_ you're not changing your plans just because of these murders," he said, "because despite what you seem to think, Lieutenant, the other officers on this force _are_ capable of handling this without you."

"Is _that_ what you think this is about?" Abbie threw up her hands in disgust. "I am well aware of what my _fellow officers_ are capable of, Captain Irving. I have _seen_ what they are capable of, every single day for _years_ while I've worked on this force. So whatever it is you're trying to imply about me right now? You can feel free to keep it to yourself."

"I am not _implying_ anything," he said. "I am _saying_ that you need to stop taking this so personally."

Abbie's eyebrows shot up, her face the definition of indignant incredulity. "And exactly which part of the way you've been treating me since you got here am I not supposed to take personally?"

"You see," he said, pointing at her, "that's exactly what I mean. What I was talking about was _this case_. This case has not been assigned to you, you have not been asked to assist, and yet every time I turn around, there you are."

"Corbin was my _partner_ ," she said.

"And I don't doubt that you were Sheriff Corbin's _favorite_ ," Irving began.

"I'm just going to stop you right there," Abbie interrupted, holding up a hand, "before you say something foolish. Because Corbin was my sheriff, and my partner, and my mentor—and, _yes_ , my friend. But don't you for one _second_ think that means he played favorites, don't you for one _second_ think he _ever_ made things easy on me. I don't know what things were like where you're from, Captain, but here in Sleepy Hollow? The force is your _family_. And if it was _your_ partner, if it was _your_ family that got killed like that, on your watch, I bet for _damn_ sure you'd take it personal."

Their staredown was intense across his desk. Finally, Irving relented, rubbed a hand over his face as he turned around with one hand on his hip. "Look at this from my perspective, Lieutenant," he sighed. "I've been waiting for a transfer to a small town like this for a long time—a _long_ time. I finally get it, and it's because the Sheriff got _decapitated_ and all hell is breaking loose. _Meanwhile_ , I've got the old Sheriff's pet project, a woman with a _history_ , involving herself and defying my authority at every turn.

"A history," Abbie repeated. "So you've read my file?"

"Did you think I wouldn't?"

"I'm just surprised," she said, "because if you've read my file, that means you know that I have _nothing_ to gain by making people think I'm crazy. You think anyone in this station doesn't know about my 'history'? You think I want to _remind_ them of it? I'm not trying to make your job harder, and I'm not trying to make you believe anything without evidence. I may have overstepped my bounds with Crane, but that's only because…" She hesitated. "I know better than most that just because someone's crazy, doesn't mean they can't have seen something real. And if it means finding what— _who_ ever killed Corbin, I will follow _every_ lead. Even the ones that seem crazy."

Irving sighed again. "Despite what you seem to think, Lieutenant, I'm not the bad guy here. I'm trying to make the best possible use of this department's resources. The last thing I— _we_ need, is to waste time and money." He rubbed his face again, then turned around to face her. "But, you know what? This isn't a big city. This is a small town, with a small town police department. I can tell you're not going to be able to focus on anything else until this case gets solved. Morale's been low. Maybe knowing you're on the case will make the rest of the force feel better. Particularly since I can tell the rest of them don't like me any better than you do."

"Captain—"

"I don't need you to make me feel better, Lieutenant. And I don't need to be liked. But for this department to function, everyone in it needs to trust that we're all on the same side. So tell me: _are_ we on the same side?"

Abbie stood straighter, her jaw tense, and nodded. "Sir."

"Good," he said. Then he raised one finger and an eyebrow in warning. "But if I find out you know what happened to Crane," he said, "you'd better believe there'll be hell to pay."

"Of course, sir."

  


* * *

  


"Guy's a real hardass, huh?"

Abbie had not precisely been avoiding Luke, but she hadn't been seeking him out, either. She didn't look up from her coffee. "He's not that bad," she said, stirring in sugar.

Luke scoffed. "Are you serious?" he asked. "Because I'm pretty sure I just watched you spend an hour in his office getting chewed out."

"It wasn't like that, Morales." She sipped her coffee, and attempted to walk away from the conversation, but Luke followed.

" _Morales_?" He scoffed again, and looked around them to be sure that no one was eavesdropping. "Just because you're leaving doesn't mean you have to get all impersonal all of a sudden."

"I'm just trying to keep things professional," she said, because this was not even remotely a conversation she wanted to be having. She sat at her desk, but of course he didn't let it go, sitting on the edge of her desk as if she didn't have anything better to do.

"Wooow," Luke said, picking up her coffee as if to take a sip. She snatched it back before he could, setting it on the other side of her computer. "Irving must've done a number on you. Since when do you care about professional?"

Abbie sighed, opening up a search on local missing persons cases and minimizing it when Luke tried to look at her screen. "Thanks," she said flatly. "I'll be sure to keep you off my list of references."

"Look, if you want me to keep you updated on Corbin's case while you're gone—"

"I'm not going anywhere." This was exactly the conversation she didn't want to have, exactly when she least wanted to be having it. She opened up an old case file, one that she kept around for the express purpose of pretending to be busy. Luke was actually the one who'd taught her that trick, even if Corbin had never fallen for it. Luke wasn't falling for it, either.

"Wait, you're staying in Sleepy Hollow?"

The undercurrent of excitement in his voice was killing her. "I couldn't leave it like this."

He seemed to miss her total lack of anything resembling happiness regarding this decision, which was not unexpected. "Soooo… I'll see you this Friday?" He grinned in that way that had once been charming, and which now only irritated her.

"It's not…" She sighed. "No, Morales. You won't."

"But you—oh!" Realization dawned, but incorrectly. "I'm sorry, I should have realized—with Corbin, and everything. It's fine, I understand. I can wait."

" _No_ , Morales." She gave up on pretending to be busy with a groan, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. "I don't want you to wait," she said between her teeth, trying to keep her voice at a discreet volume. It wasn't going to work, because in that building gossip spread like wildfire, but that didn't mean she couldn't try.

"I don't mind," Luke said, like he was doing her a favor.

"That's not—there's nothing to wait for. Can we talk about this later?"

"Wait," Luke began, and now actual realization was revealing itself in the furrow of his brow. "Is this—are you breaking up with me?"

"I broke up with you weeks ago, Morales."

"Yeah," he agreed, "when you were leaving. Because you don't do long-distance relationships." Abbie attempted to look around the room through her peripheral vision, because she couldn't tell if he was _actually_ making a scene, or if it just felt that way from the inside. "Was that just an excuse? Is there someone else?"

That tore it. " _Luke_ ," she said, "there _is_ no one else, there is _never_ anyone else, the fact that you always think it's someone else is half the reason I—no. _No_. We are not having this conversation right now, this is not the time, this is not the place. Get back to your desk and do your damn job, Morales. You want to talk about this, do it when we're off-duty."

Luke slid off her desk, stiff from his spine to the set of his jaw. "Yes, ma'am," he growled. "Sorry to bother you, _Lieutenant_."

"Apology accepted," she said at his retreating back. Which was petty, but she'd take her victories where she could get them. Being the bigger man had never been her specialty; no reason to start just because the world might be ending.

"He wasn't bothering you, was he?"

Abbie practically leapt out of her skin, surprised by Andy's silent approach. Or maybe it had only seemed silent because she'd been distracted, glowering at her ex for making a bad day worse.

"No, Brooks," she lied, "it's fine. Don't worry about it."

"I just wanted to make sure," he said, adding a hasty, "Not that you can't handle yourself! I just, you know. Since you decided not to leave—"

"Who told you about that?" Abbie demanded, because so far she'd only told Irving and Morales and neither of them were the telling type.

Andy shrugged. "Word gets around."

Abbie made a sound of disgust, looking suspiciously around the office. "People getting murdered in the streets," she said, "and these cops have nothing better to do but poke their noses into other people's business."

"Poking our noses into other people's business is kind of in the job description," Andy pointed out, but he was silenced immediately by the look on Abbie's face. "Sorry," he added. "Hey, have you, um. Been assigned a new partner yet? Because I was thinking—"

"I'm kind of doing my own thing right now, Brooks," she said before he could finish. "Irving's giving me more wiggle room to follow up on the weird leads, so no one else has to waste their time."

He looked stricken. "But that's—that sounds like it could be dangerous."

Abbie raised an eyebrow at his melodramatic response. Irving clearly thought the leads she wanted were a wild goose chase, something that would take her away from and not towards the action. So why did Brooks think differently? "We're cops, Brooks," she said instead of asking. "Dangerous is kind of in the job description."

"I know," he said, "but I. There are people here that care about you. They care about you a lot, and they don't want to see you getting hurt. And I think, if you thought about it, you'd realize that they only really want what's best for you. That's all they've ever wanted."

Andy Brooks was approximately as subtle as a sweaty brick to the face.

"That's sweet," Abbie said, "but I don't think anyone's really that worried." Andy deflated in the face of Abbie's refusal to pick up on what he was trying to insinuate. Pretending not to notice when men who thought they were nice also thought they were in love was an art form, and one Abigail Mills had mastered. She'd spent years now sidestepping Andy's attempts to confess, because as long as he continued being passive-aggressive, she didn't have to shoot him down.

Andy Brooks was nice enough, but he was the kind of nice that didn't handle rejection very well.

"If you'll excuse me," she said, standing before he could try again, "I need to go powder my nose."

Halfway to the bathroom, she heard him say, "I think your nose looks great." If she rolled her eyes any harder, they'd roll right out of her head.

Locking the door behind her, she splashed her face with cold water and tried to stop feeling irritated. Had her job always involved so much male ego management? Maybe it just hadn't bothered her back when Sleepy Hollow had actually been sleepy. But now? Now Corbin was dead, the world might be ending, and people were definitely dying in ugly and messy ways. If men that were supposed to be helping her kept having feelings all over her instead, she was going to start cutting off some heads of her own.

"Watch out for Brooks," said Corbin, and the voice was so welcome and familiar that it took her a moment to remember it belonged to a dead man. She spun around, but there was no one there.

"Really?" she asked the empty room. She threw up her hands, then crossed them over her chest. "If you're haunting a bathroom, Corbin," she said, "I'm getting you exorcised for your own good." She didn't know if she wanted the voice to have been real. She didn't know if she believed in heaven, but she definitely wanted Corbin to be there. She didn't want to be crazy, either, but maybe it would be easier if she was. Why save the world when she could just get medicated instead? "Is that really it?" she asked, and she was angry at the sound of her voice cracking in the silence. "That's all I get? Even now…" She sighed, uncrossing her arms to lean back and brace them against the sink. 

"I am _so_ mad at you," she said, because she didn't really care if he was listening. "How many years were you expecting me to solve a puzzle when I didn't even know I was holding the pieces? This isn't fair. This isn't fair, and you know it." With mild horror, she realized that her eyes were watering. She bit her lip, took deep breaths until the feeling abated.

"Okay," she said finally. "I'll keep an eye out. Thanks."


	4. Chapter 4

_I served you as a garment, and you did not know me._

  


# THEN

  


Ichabod,

It has been so many years since I saw you last. If all goes as it should, then for you it will have been no time at all. How I ache for you, and all that will have come to pass in the time between two heartbeats. I would ask you not to mourn for me, but I know it will do you no good. Yours is a stubborn heart, and the Devil himself will not stop you from mourning.

I do not know how many years I have left in me, if it will be few or many. But know, husband, that if I were to die even now, I will have lived a good life. It is not the life I would have chosen, nor the life I wanted, but it has been a good life all the same. These years have been difficult, but with Jeremy by my side, I would not trade them for anything.

Oh, Jeremy! You would love him, not as I love him, but you would love him as much as any mortal man can love a son. I confess that you might not approve of him in all things, for he is not the gentleman that you would have raised him as. Yet you would love him, for he is good and kind and like you in so many ways.

I pray you do not hate me for the things I could not say. I do not know if you would have loved a witch, if a witch you had known me to be. A witch for a wife, who gave you a witch for a son—do you despise me for it, whenever you are? I hope you will understand that I did only what was necessary. Lies were never what I wanted for us. I have ever been told that there is no crueler fate for a mortal than to be loved by a witch. I had hoped that we would be different.

I did not know you for a Witness, when first we met. I do not know if I could have stopped myself from loving you even had I known. I am sorry that I could not tell you. I should apologize, as well, for loving you, and yet I cannot bring myself to do it. I cannot apologize for a love which brought our son into this world, however dreadful, however flawed.

There is much to say, and the rest of my life to say it. Now that you have risen—and you must have, to read these words—so, too, has the Horseman of Death. In his wake will follow other Horsemen, who will open the door for Moloch and the End of All Things. I cannot be there for you in flesh, nor in spirit, but in word and in deed I shall do all that I am able to assist you. Let it never be said that I was not a loyal wife, for all the good that my loyalty has done you. There will be other monstrosities, dread creatures and foul abominations lurking in the shadows of yet darker things. I have encountered many such things in my travels, and shall record for you as much as I am able. When I find I can record no more, this book will pass to Jeremy, that he may do the same. There is great power in knowledge, for witches and mortals alike, and I will give you all power as is within my grasp.

If you've not yet found the other Witness, it is with the greatest urgency that you must do so. I cannot know, either, what form this companion will take. I can only hope that fate will see fit to have you suited for one another, for you have seven years ahead of you. Seven years, and seven deaths, seven ends you must prevent. I have faith that you shall rise to the task, as you have always risen. 

Take heart, Ichabod: you will never be alone. If I can give you nothing else, I will give you that.

Katrina

  


* * *

  


# NOW

  


"You okay?"

Ichabod Crane was, unequivocally, not 'okay'.

Jenny Mills lingered by the door, as if she might retreat if she did not like his answer.

"Three days ago," he said, "I was happily married to the most… to the… to _Katrina_. And now she is not only _dead_ , but a _witch_ , and my son haunts my dreams with a face older than my own. The world is ending, and will end again, and I must spend seven years in this world I do not recognize trying to save it." He shut the book he held, the pages clapping as he all but slammed them together. "You will excuse me if I would appreciate some… time."

Jenny Mills did not retreat, stepping further into the cabin with a sigh. "I'm not going to pretend I understand what you're going through," she said, "but time is one thing that we absolutely do not have." She crossed her arms over her chest, resting her weight on one foot; the posture looked strange to him, still, aggressive and masculine. "The Sisters have spent over two-hundred years getting ready for your arrival, and now that you're here, this is the part where all hell breaks loose. Literally." She paused. "And in my experience… it can help to keep busy."

Busy. That was one word for it.

Yet, she was right. Why was it only now that the grief was hitting him in earnest, with such ferocity? Glimpses of this agony had caught him before, losing his temper with the Lieutenant when she would not accept that his reality was an awful one. It had been easier to bury, to ignore, distracted by… her smile. The way she tried not to. The way he wanted her to.

"The Sisters," he began, interrupting that train of thought. "You are… a witch?"

Jenny did not quite smile, a rueful sound to match her expression. "Not really," she said. "I mean… I'm a hedge witch." He raised an eyebrow. "I can use grimoires or relics, I can recite some incantations, activate things… I can't do magic on my own. I'm not a pure witch. Not like Katrina was." She shrugged. "It's not so bad. Being a witch has troubles of its own."

"I see." He traced his fingers over the book's cover. "I saw Jeremy. Briefly. He did not clarify—this says that as I have risen, so has the Horseman. Why?"

Jenny's mouth flattened to a line, her nose wrinkling. "Well… that's where things get complicated." She pulled a chair out from the dining room table to sit facing him, leaning with her elbows on her knees. "When you killed the Horseman—sort of killed him—your blood mingled on the battlefield. A sort of blood magic. As long as you were sleeping, he'd stay sleeping. Once you woke up… well." She shrugged.

"So this is my fault?" he asked, incredulous.

"Sort of?" she admitted, spreading her hands. "Not exactly. The Horseman wouldn't have stayed dead. As long as he was sleeping, he was trapped. So, that worked out. Until you woke up."

"What woke me?"

"Abbie," she said, startling him. "I mean… a witness. Another witness. I don't know why it waited until _now_ —I guess getting partnered up with a teenager would be a little awkward. You wouldn't think it would matter, but these things tend to sort themselves out. Fate, or whatever." She fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. "What was it like?" she asked finally.

He frowned. "Being dead?"

"No," she laughed. "Meeting Abbie. The other witness." Something of his confusion must have shown on his face. "I'm just curious," she said. "I've known since basically always that Abbie was a witness. After we saw that vision in the forest, the Sisters knew it was going to be one of us. Since I got the…" She wiggled her fingers, perhaps to indicate magic. "… that left Abbie."

"You never told her?" he asked.

"Like she would have believed me?" she scoffed. "Like she'd believe anyone. Corbin did everything but spell it out for her, and she still never caught on." She shrugged again. "But I was always taught that the witnesses would have a _connection_. You know? They made it sound very impressive. Waking you up from the dead, and all. I was always curious what it would feel like… having a connection like that."

A connection to wake him from the dead. That did sound impressive. Was that what this was?

"Confusing," he said. "Very confusing."

Jenny grinned. "Well I definitely know what _that_ feels like." She reached out to hit his knee, an oddly familiar gesture from anyone, let alone a woman.

The twenty-first century was going to take a lot of getting used to.

"Jeremy said I needed to find the Horseman's head," he said, and she nodded, standing up.

"I figured," she said. "The witch he killed last night was one of the Sisters in charge of keeping it safe. Now there's nothing in his way, and it's going to be dark soon."

"What happens after dark?" he asked, standing in turn. He still felt stiff, sore; he still ached where the car had hit him after his awakening.

"The Horseman returns," she said, and he felt a chill.

  


* * *

  


"You put the head of the Horseman of Death into a _reliquary?_ "

Jenny laughed, clearly not at all disturbed by the sacrilege. "It seemed like the best way to keep it safe," she said, sliding on a pair of gloves. "And, look! It worked!"

The skull sat atop the body of a statue in a sconce in the church, covered in glass and wearing a crown of gold, gilded and morbid. Ichabod could hardly bear to look at the thing.

"They did this centuries ago, anyway," she continued. "It's not like _I_ had anything to do with it." She tapped him on the shoulder. "Here, gimme a boost."

"A what?"

She rolled her eyes, and pushed him closer to the sconce. "Here," she said, "just stand here, and try not to fall over." Before he could object, she'd placed her hands on his shoulders, nearly knocking him over as she pushed downward.

… she was standing on his shoulders. He had traveled two-hundred and fifty years into the future, and now a hedge-witch was standing on his shoulders in order to retrieve the skull of a horseman of the apocalypse from a sacred reliquary in his old church.

He was an antique footstool.

This had not been mentioned in Revelations.

"Are you nearly finished?" he asked through grit teeth. She was not a heavy woman, by any means, but this was both a test of strength and a balancing act and neither were his expertise.

"Just give me a minute," she said. "This stupid— _ugh_ —rosary thing is stuck on the other— _ah!_ " It gave way all at once, and she tipped backward, taking a very alarmed Ichabod Crane with her. He grunted in pain as he hit the ground, the already-bruised parts of his back not best pleased by being hit again. He rolled over and scrambled to his knees, relieved to find that Jenny seemed safe. She was sitting on the floor of the church between the pews, the skull clutched in her lap and apparently undamaged.

"Got it," she said, looking terribly pleased with herself. "Now we've just gotta get out of here, before—"

There was a crash as the door burst open, overtaken by a shadow. A man, broad-shouldered in a suit of red. A man without a head.

"—the Horseman shows up," she finished lamely.

The crash of lightning seemed entirely unnecessary.


	5. Chapter 5

_And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer._  


  


It was the first time Ichabod had actually seen the Horseman, now that he was without a head. He looked, inexplicably, _larger_.

The Hessian lifted the rifle he held, and on instinct Ichabod ducked beneath a pew. "Shit!" Jenny dove to join him, shoving the glass reliquary into his hands as wood exploded above her head. He tried not to drop it even as he recoiled. "You need to get out of here," she said, pulling a gun from beneath her coat.

"I'm not leaving you here to fight him alone," he said, and they both flinched as more wood splintered around them.

"You don't have a weapon," she reminded him, "and I can handle myself." As if to prove the point, she aimed and fired, though it ricocheted off the Horseman's axe.

" _I cannot operate your vehicle_ ," he reminded her in turn, a hiss between his teeth.

" _Shit_ ," she said again, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him bodily across the aisle. She was not as small as her sister, but it still seemed as if she was entirely too strong for her size. "Okay," she said, "then we leave together."

"You are suggesting we run?" he asked, clutching the skull against his chest. "Simply leave this beast here to do as he pleases?"

"What he _pleases_ is to have his head back," Jenny said. "He isn't here to kill civilians."

"He's here to kill _all_ civilians." Heavy steps came slowly nearer.

"Oh my _god_ , you are _such_ a pedant." She shot at the horseman again, just as uselessly as before, and Ichabod wondered if it was simply a violent form of stress relief for her. "Stay low, we'll go out through the back."

"Incidentally," he said, though he followed her, "I would like to have my own gun in the future."

"Noted," she said, but somehow he doubted that she was being honest.

There had been a time when the mere ownership of a gun had caused him distress. That was before people had started shooting at him. Now its lack was keenly felt, and he did not like this feeling, this helplessness. A fox who could do nothing to stop the baying hounds at his heels. A gun in his hands would be no more useful than the gun in hers, but at least he could feel as if he was doing something.

"There's two doors out the back of this church," she explained, tucking her gun away. "You take the one on the left, I'll take the skull through the one on the right. You're more important than the skull, if we split you up he ought to take the bait and go after me, figure he can get you once he has his head."

Ichabod's brow furrowed. "You are also more important than the skull," he reminded her.

The quirk to her mouth was simultaneously rueful and condescending. "That is just precious, but we don't have time for that right now." She took the reliquary from him, tucked it under her arm in a manner that seemed disrespectful.

Logically, Ichabod was well aware that it was not an actual reliquary. And yet.

"We'll argue about it later, then," he said.

"Let's hope." And then she ran, leaving Ichabod to do the same. He moved along the pews and tried to keep his head down, but there turned out to be very little point. The Horseman focused his attention on Jenny as she'd predicted, firing on her and her alone, yet another thing Ichabod found irrationally offensive. Of all the people present, one would think Ichabod presented the greatest threat —for having defeated him once before, if nothing else.

Still, both of them made it outside uninjured, though only Ichabod took the time to shut the door behind him. It just seemed _prudent_ , was all. Jenny grabbed his arm as she ran past him, pulling him along, which was really very awkward when his legs were actually longer. She seemed to realize that, let him go so that they could move out of the way of fire if necessary on the way to her truck.

Except that out of the corner of his eye, he could see a familiar vehicle.

He skidded to a near-immediate halt, shoes digging into the ground as he slid with forward momentum. The Horseman had not come through the back doors, though he'd had no way of knowing that when he'd stopped. But Abigail Mills was approaching the church, slow and cautious and holding her gun, for all the good it would do her. And Ichabod knew, in that way that all pessimists simply know things, that the Horseman was going to come out through the front door and shoot her.

"Lieutenant!"

  


* * *

  


Abbie hadn't turned on her siren when she'd driven up. She'd had a hunch she knew who was firing in a church, and she didn't want to announce herself.

She didn't know if she'd be able to stop the Horseman, if it came right down to it. But he was shooting at someone, if he was in there, and they were going to need all the help they could get. If she wasn't too late.

Someone yelling at her suddenly ought to have startled her, but she recognized the voice so quickly that her only thought was to be sure she didn't shoot him. There was approximately no time at all between when she saw him running towards her and when he _lifted her off the goddamn ground_ , but it was enough to get her gun up and out of the way. He'd hoisted her up and over his shoulder with an ease that suggested he was either stronger than he looked, or on an extreme adrenaline kick. "Crane! What the hell do you think you're doing?" But even as she asked she saw the Horseman emerge from the front of the church, turning as he lifted his rifle.

"Sorry, Lieutenant!" He did not actually sound particularly sorry. Abbie was too busy to argue with him, lifting her gun and trying to time her shot with the way Crane's running jostled her. She felt vindicated when she saw a burst of rotten fabric at the Horseman's shoulder—not that it accomplished anything, but it made her feel better.

Until Ichabod made a pained noise and collapsed, falling to one knee and only barely getting her safely back on the ground. They had, fortunately, made it to the other side of Abbie's car in order to use it as a shield.

"Did you shoot me?" Ichabod asked, sounding both horrified and offended.

"What?" He was holding his shoulder, trying to staunch the bleeding as red blossomed outward on his shirt. It was absurd to be momentarily distracted with the question of where he'd gotten new clothes, but the mind did funny things sometimes. "I shot the _Horseman_ ," she said, trying to make clear with her tone that she would not accept suggestions to the contrary. Because she _had_ shot the Horseman, square in the…

"Crane," she said, and he looked up from his wound at her. She felt an inexplicable pang at the hurt on his face, hidden as poorly as it was. "I shot the Horseman in the shoulder. You're bleeding from the shoulder. Same spot."

Pain gave way to realization on his face. "You wounded us both."

"We shoot him, we shoot you."

"That explains why he didn't seem particularly interested in shooting me." More gunshots rang out. Realization turned to grave concern. "Jenny is trying very hard to shoot him," he informed her.

"Shit." She peered over her car at the shootout in progress. "Wait here," she said as she moved to leave.

"I'm not—" His protest died with a wince, falling back to the concrete against her tire.

"Wait. Here." And then she took off running towards her sister. Jenny had taken shelter behind a car—not hers, which was probably for the best, but also just _typical_. "Jenny!" Abbie barely managed to outrun a shot from the Horseman, diving behind the mystery car.

"What happened to Crane?" Jenny asked, her gun at ready, the glass container full of skull tucked under her arm. "Last I saw he was trying to keep you away from this." Abbie put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from taking another shot.

"We can't hurt the Horseman."

"No, but that won't stop me from trying."

" _Jenny_. The Horseman and Crane are linked. I shot the Horseman, now Crane's bleeding over by my car, same exact spot."

Jenny took a second to process this. "Shit." Then both women jumped, bit back screams as the Horseman's axe nearly split the car they were hiding behind in two. "New plan!" Abbie was almost startled as Jenny grabbed her hand, pulling her along to run toward her truck. She let her go in time for them to separate, and Abbie only barely made it inside the passenger door before Jenny started to pull away. The tires squealed against the pavement as Jenny sped toward Abbie's car, again as they screeched to a not-quite halt. "Get in!" she shouted out the window.

Ichabod didn't need to be told twice, immediately leapt into the bed of the truck—though clumsily, with his arm in the state it was. Abbie tried not to look at the skull now sitting in the middle seat. "We just need to get as far away from the Horseman as we can," Jenny said, "until the sun comes up."

Which would have worked out a lot better if more police cruisers hadn't just pulled out in front of them.

The truck skidded sideways as Jenny tried to turn to avoid crashing into them, slamming on the brakes. Abbie could hear Ichabod slide into the wall of the truck bed, grunting in pain. She looked out the window in time to see Irving get out of his cruiser, level his gun at them.

"We don't have time for this," she muttered, rolling the window down. "Irving! You need to let us through!"

"I told you there'd be hell to pay, Mills!" he shot back, and she resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Not well. More of a half-roll. "Get out of the damn truck with your hands up, all of you!" Other officers joined him, familiar faces, but none of the rest of them pulled their weapons.

"Irving, for your own safety, let us through!"

"Is that a threat, Mills?" he demanded.

"It's a warning! Get out of the—"

"What the hell is that?" shouted one of the officers, interrupting the exchange to point behind Jenny's truck. Abbie turned to look, and was greeted with the sight of exactly what she didn't want to see. The Horseman, horse and all, coming closer. Slowly, as if he knew he didn't need to run—knew that the fear would scare off most of the people in his way.

"Mills, what the _fuck_ is that?" Irving shouted, as if it was her fault somehow.

"What do you think it is?" she shouted back. "All of you need to get out of here! Moore! Thompson! You stay here and you're going to die!"

"You aren't going anywhere," Irving snapped at the men in question. "Get ready to fire."

"You can't shoot it!" All this yelling was going to leave her hoarse for a week, she was sure. "It won't work, it'll only make it worse!"

"I think it's a little late for negotiations," Jenny said bitterly, and when Abbie looked she realized the horse had started to run. She made a split-second decision, picked up the skull and shoved it into Jenny's hands.

"Run. We'll stall—all of us, just go."

Jenny didn't need to be told twice. She opened Abbie's side of the truck, slipped out over Abbie's lap and rolled onto the pavement. Irving's eyes widened as Jenny came leaping over the hood of his car, and even Abbie was surprised when she suddenly shoved Irving out of the way to climb inside. She didn't give anyone enough time to protest, slamming the door shut and locking herself inside. Irving might have protested anyway, but that was when the Horseman threw his axe.

Ichabod remained curled low in the bed of the truck, and the axe sailed over his head, went straight for Irving's cruiser. Jenny ducked, barely avoided it as it sliced through the roof of the car like it was nothing at all. More impressive was the way Irving fell back, ducking backward to avoid it and rolling sideways.

Fortunately for Jenny, this got him out of her way. She hit the gas, and the car screeched as she went down the road. The Horseman didn't slow down, and his horse vaulted over Jenny's truck; at the height of his arc the axe flew back into his hand, and he sliced through another police car as he chased Jenny down the street.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" Irving repeated.

"Extenuating circumstances, sir!" Abbie was already sliding over to the driver's seat, because she couldn't possibly just let her sister drive through the city being chased by that _thing_.

"I don't mean to interrupt," Ichabod said, and when Abbie swiveled in her seat she could see him sitting upright in the back of the truck, still clutching his shoulder. "If I could maybe get some assistance?"

"Shit." She couldn't leave _him_ like that, either. She looked to Irving, who still looked shell-shocked, terrified and furious. "Captain Irving, how'd you like to drive?"

"Will you explain to me what the hell's going on if I do?"

"I'll try," she said, opening the glove compartment, gratified to find a first aid kit. She grabbed it and got out of the car, climbed into the bed of the truck with Ichabod.

"You two going to be okay back there?" Irving asked as he got in the truck.

"Just drive!" She braced herself against the wall of it as the truck started to move, and Ichabod did the same. "You okay, Crane?"

"Not particularly, no." She opened up the first aid kit, dug around for gauze and a roll of cloth bandages. Then she pushed his hand out of the way so she could assess the damage.

Damage assessment: nasty.

She tore his sleeve open so that she could get to it, tried to wipe as much of the blood away as she could before pressing gauze to the wound. He made a lot of smothered, strangled noises that didn't quite escape his throat, and she tried to ignore them.

"Mills, is there a goddamn headless horseman chasing your sister?"

"Yes, sir," she confirmed, wrapping bandages tight around Ichabod's arm. It didn't need to be perfect, just enough that he could function until they could get it looked at properly.

"And this guy, is he actually some kind of time traveler?"

"Of sorts," Ichabod said between grit teeth.

"I still don't believe you," Irving said, and Ichabod nearly fell into Abbie's lap as he took a sharp turn. "But I just watched a man with no head turn my car into a convertible, so maybe give me some time here."

"Is that better?" Abbie asked Ichabod, her makeshift treatment done as much as it could be.

"In theory," Ichabod said, not sounding better at all. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

"There he is!" Irving called back to them, and both looked forward to see the Horseman still chasing Irving's car through the streets. He was taking shots at it, but Jenny did not seem to have been injured thus far. "You sure I can't shoot him?"

"The only person that hurts is Crane," she explained.

"How the hell does that work?"

"I'll explain later, sir."

"Do we have a plan, then, or are we just chasing them for the hell of it?"

"No plan, sir," Abbie admitted. "I'm just not leaving my sister alone with that thing."

"Fair." There was a sound similar to the gunfire that had been ongoing, and yet distinct; the car ahead of them started to skid. The Horseman had taken out one of the tires. Which gave Abbie an idea.

"Keep it steady!" she called to Irving, as she stood up in the bed of the truck. Ichabod held on to one of her ankles, either to steady her or because he was anxious. She took aim, fired; the horse collapsed beneath the Horseman as its ankle exploded. Horseman and horse both went tumbling, skidded along the pavement.

Irving slowed the truck as they approached the scene, but the victory was short-lived. The Horseman pulled himself to his feet; at the same time, the horse began to stand. Its leg still bled, but it was black, sticky like tar and seemed almost to be reassembling itself.

So much for that.

"Now what?" Irving asked.

"We're done," Ichabod said, his relief palpable; Abbie looked down at him, followed his gaze. The sun was rising over the horizon.

"What?"

"He can't be in daylight," Abbie explained. Indeed, the Horseman's advance on Jenny came to a stop as his skin started to smoke. He turned, climbed back on his horse; it reared back once before running away from them. They watched him go, and it did not feel as much like a victory as she wanted to.

It was Irving who finally broke the long silence.

"Where in the _hell_ ," he asked, "am I supposed to find paperwork to cover this?"


End file.
